


An Untamed Youth

by ChasingRabbits



Series: Rock 'n' Roll Queer Bar [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Human, Bottom Dean, First Meetings, First Time, Human Castiel, M/M, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRabbits/pseuds/ChasingRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working his first weekday shift alone at the Roadhouse, Dean meets a troubled patron by the name of Castiel. Over the next twenty-four hours, the two manage to bond on a few levels that neither expects.</p><p>All love stories start somewhere. Some, unfortunately, have to start with a hangover and some invasive questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Untamed Youth

**Author's Note:**

> "You're dirty and sweet, clad in black, don't look back,  
> And I love you,  
> You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah.  
> You dance when you walk so let's dance, take a chance, understand me."
> 
> Bang A Gong (Get it On) - T. Rex

The first time Ellen leaves Dean alone in charge of the bar is a Wednesday afternoon. She has a dentist appointment, Jo is at school in another goddamned state, and since Dean is newly twenty-one and now an official staff member of Harvelle’s Roadhouse, he’s the guy for the job.

A few of the regulars line the bar, as well as a few faces Dean has never seen before. It’s busy for this time of day, for this time of the week, that’s for sure. It’s never fancy cocktails at this hour, either. Dean spends almost the entire time doling out beers and pouring straight liquor.

There is one guy at the very end of the bar, however, who’s ordered nothing but Coke the last three times Dean has talked to him. He’s not much older than Dean, twenty-two, though he dresses like he’s forty.

The guy’s in a suit, for Christ’s sake.

A suit that does very good things for him looks-wise, sure, but a suit nonetheless. Dean can hardly bring himself to wear the slacks Ellen used to make him put on for church, much less a whole damn suit.

Dean glances back over at him. He’s a good-looking guy… very good-looking, even if at the moment he is picking apart peanut shells like it’s his goddamned job, jittering like he’s looking for his next fix.

Yep, still good-looking.

It’s kind of bizarre that he allows himself to think that now, so freeing not to be afraid of his own thoughts and feelings. This guy—Castiel, Dean recalls from checking his ID—would have tormented him not so long ago. Hell, even now Dean is still kind of pissed off at how absolutely gorgeous his face is.

Because even if Dean didn’t like guys, he thinks he’d want to grab this guy by his fancy jacket and shake the handsome right off of him.  

And then he catches Dean staring at him and Dean immediately averts his eyes.

God, what is he, thirteen?

He takes a breath and makes his way back down to where Castiel sits, still as preoccupied as ever with the peanuts. Dean grabs a spare bowl from under the bar and sets it in front of him.

“For the shells,” he explains. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger than that?”

Castiel looks up at him then ( _wow_ , his eyes are blue), and asks, “Like what?”

“Well, a little rum in there wouldn’t be too bad,” Dean offers. “Neither would a little whiskey.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the difference between the two,” Castiel admits, and Dean hangs his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Not even at parties, or during the holidays?”

Castiel shakes his head, “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Okay,” Dean nods. “Okay, fine. I’m gonna start you off with something good.”

Castiel shifts in his seat.

“Just give me whatever they’re having,” he indicates the burly truckers at the other end of the bar. “Might as well, since that’s where I’m headed anyway. They look like seasoned veterans.”

Dean snorts, though he’s actually not sure if Castiel meant to be funny or not.

He pours a finger of whiskey for Castiel, and then one for himself.  

“We’ll start you off on this,” says Dean as he plucks his glass from the bar top. “You’ve got a while ‘til you get there, don’t make yourself crazy.”

He clinks his glass against Castiel’s and watches as he tips back the entire thing in one go.

Well, that’s one way to do it.

Castiel’s face contorts, and he gasps, “Oh my god, I’m going to breathe fire, aren’t I?”

Dean almost does an honest-to-god spit take.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he reassures him. “Most booze is.”

“Ugh,” Castiel sticks out his tongue. “Pour me another one then.”

“Eat some peanuts and wait a few minutes, trust me,” says Dean.

“Just shut up and pour me another,” Castiel hides his face in his hands. Ellen has said numerous times that part of tending bar means playing the therapist every once in a while, and this looks to be exactly one of those times.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Dean asks as he refills both of their glasses.

Castiel tosses his back, pulling another face before he answers, “Just my life going down the toilet. Nothing you haven’t heard, I’m sure.”  

“Yeah, but I haven’t heard it from you,” Dean shrugs. “Those guys down there take care of themselves, trust me, I got nothin’ but time and a working set of ears.”

Castiel lets out a harsh sigh through his nostrils and looks up at Dean with a stoic expression. Already the whites of his eyes have turned pink, irritated at their first brush with alcohol. Dean swallows back what’s in his glass, though that’s all he can do for now. Ellen has a rule about two drinks per shift.

Dean always tries to save his for a pretty stranger in need of a drinking partner.

“Do you ever look at your life and think,” Castiel begins as Dean pours him another drink. “Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve built your life around, is just… shit?”

Dean blinks a few times before whipping the towel down off of his shoulder and swiping at the stretch of bar in front of Castiel.

“Pretty sure the story of my life is gonna be a twenty-part epic detailing every single one of my fuck-ups,” he says.

“I did everything right,” Castiel shakes his head. “Got into college, got into my program, worked, volunteered—everything.”

“So what’s the problem?” Dean asks.

“I,” Castiel frowns, like he can’t even believe what he’s about to say. “I’m failing out of school. I don’t know what happened. I just started failing.”

“What do you study?”

“Religious Studies,” Castiel replies. “And don’t give me that look, I know I can’t do a damn thing with it.”

“Not giving you any look,” Dean raises his hands. “You’re talking to a D-student with a GED, man. I don’t judge.”

Castiel rubs his face and smacks his forehead down against the bar, hard enough for Dean to actually be concerned when he doesn’t sit back up right away.

“It just stopped making sense,” Castiel pops back up, an angry red splotch now in the middle of his forehead, a peanut shell stuck in his hair. Dean reaches over and removes it, Castiel watching his hand the entire time. “Thank you,” he replies.

“You’re welcome,” Dean smiles.

“I was raised,” Castiel sniffs and rubs his eyes. “To believe that everything was black and white. There’s a right, there’s a wrong. You fulfill your duties, you work hard, and you’ll be rewarded.”

“And it stopped making sense?” Dean asks.

“Religious studies is fascinating,” Castiel sighs. “But when you’ve spent all your life believing an absolute truth, it’s a little unsettling to learn about everyone else’s absolute truths and realize that… if there are that many out there, it’s highly improbable that my absolute truth is _The Absolute Truth_.”

“Shit,” Dean marvels. “Yeah, I guess that’d fuck you up, huh?”

Castiel moans and picks up his glass, still full with his third drink. He looks down at the dark liquid swirling around the bottom of his glass and sighs.

“And now I’m talking to a stranger about my existential crisis,” he mumbles.

“Well hey, one of those is an easy fix,” Dean grins, alcohol buzzing in his fingertips as he sticks his hand out across the bar, “I’m Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak,” he shakes Dean’s hand.

“Castiel,” Dean wraps his tongue around the word. “That's pretty fire and brimstone.”

“I know,” Castiel scoffs into his glass. “Michael and Gabriel lucked out. Lucifer and I, less so.”

“Who?”

“My brothers,” Castiel mumbles. He sniffs at the glass, and pulls a face.   

“You don’t have to drink that,” says Dean, but Castiel downs it just as his tongue clicks against the last ‘ _t’_ of the sentence. “Or do.”

“I feel very odd,” Castiel declares. “My face is very hot.”

“Fuck, you are a damn lightweight, dude,” Dean chuckles and grabs the empty glasses off of the bar counter.

“I also don’t know that I can feel my legs,” Castiel looks down, and then he pokes experimentally at his thigh. And then he does it again.

He looks back up at Dean and gives a discerning wince, “Still to be determined.”

By the time Ellen gets back, Castiel has insisted on trying rum. He says he likes it more, but Dean doesn’t have the heart to tell him that booze tastes better and better the more you drink.

“Shit,” Ellen sighs as Castiel taps his fingers against the jukebox in the corner and hollers out the words to _Don’t Stop Believin’_. “He’s three sheets to the damn wind.”

“He’s having a rough time,” Dean explains, massaging his ears. “And now so is everyone else.”

He hits a high note—and ‘ _hits’_ is putting it very generously—and Ellen shakes her head.

“Absolutely not, honey,” she says. “You gotta get him outta here.”

“And take him where, exactly?”

“Home?” Ellen offers. “I don’t know, Dean. He’s just gotta go.”

Which is how Dean ends up pulling Castiel out of the Roadhouse as he goes into a loud rendition of _Piano Man_.

“You got a car?” asks Dean.

“ _A friend dropped me off ‘cause I cannot drive_ ,” Castiel belts out to the tune. “ _And now I have no ride home. But I live near the college, and… something about knowledge. I’m not very good at rhymes.”_

“Jesus, you are fucking lit,” Dean laughs against him. “Your friend left you here with no way to get home?”

“ _Balthazar’s kind of a dick_ ,” Castiel keeps singing. “ _Thought it would be good for me, dun – dun – dun, SING US A SONG YOU’RE THE BARTENDER—”_

“Yeah, I’m just gonna take you in my car, okay?”

Regrettably, the only thing Dean’s old boss at the shop in town was willing to part with was a beat up red Toyota pickup. Dean paid for all the parts to fix it up himself, but even under his best care the thing still runs like a wheezing old man.

At least Castiel manages to buckle himself in without supervision, but as they pull away from the Roadhouse and Dean asks Castiel where he needs to go, Castiel refuses to do anything but blow raspberries with his lips.

Shit.

“Hey Cas, I’m gonna take you back to my place so you can sober up, okay?”

“Aye-aye, matey,” Castiel shuts one eye and makes a hook with the index finger of his right hand.

A couple of hours with the guy and already Dean has deciphered the largest portion of his personality: Castiel is a gigantic dweeb.

Dean pulls up out front of the house and helps Castiel out of the truck. It wasn’t long ago that Ellen and Jo were doing the same for him, dragging his drunk, sorry ass out of the back of the Roadhouse and into their home.

And even with the fake ID and the sarcasm, the occasional white hot flashes of anger and his ravenous appetite, they let him stay. He’s been with Ellen and Jo for four years now, with the mom and sister he never got to have. They’re more of a family to him than he ever was to his dad and Sam, more of a family than Dean deserves.

“Okay, buddy,” Dean heaves Castiel in through the front door and guides him down the hall to his bed. It’s a modest set-up, for which he’s paid Ellen back (for the most part), but he likes it. She doesn’t bitch at him to take down his knife collection, or tell him that his cheesecake posters are inappropriate.

Castiel doesn’t seem to be bothered by them either.

“Your mom lets you keep boobies pictures on your walls?” he marvels. “My mom would shit if I did that.”

“Hence, why you are a grown man who says things like ‘boobies pictures’,” Dean guides him down easy.

“Gabriel did it when we were thirteen,” Castiel explains. “He put a picture like that one up on our wall,” he points to one of a woman, top off, perky tits exposed, “She grounded him for three months. Just for some boobs. Not like it was a twat shot or anything.”

Dean wonders if it’s possible to pinpoint a moment you fall for someone.

“Here, on your side,” Dean helps him roll over. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

“I’m gonna stare at the naked ladies on your wall,” Castiel replies.

In the time it takes for Dean to come back with a glass of water (and an empty pot to keep by his head, just in case), Castiel has already fallen sound asleep. 

**oo**

Castiel wakes around four hours later. Dean only knows because he hears a pained retch come from his room. He turns off the heat on his grilled cheese and runs in to find Castiel bent over with the pot in his lap.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean greets as gently as he can and sits beside him on the bed. Stale peanuts soaked in booze and stomach acid. It’s a smell he knows all too well from cleaning bathrooms at the Roadhouse. “You’ll be okay, man.”

Castiel shakes his head, not looking up from where his head is buried in the pot.

“Yeah, you will,” Dean nods and rubs a hand over his back. “Happens to the best of us.”

Castiel’s whole body heaves again, emptying more of his stomach into the pot.

He does this three more times, each time the motions getting less and less violent until it finally stutters to a halt.

“Goddamn,” Dean whistles. “That was impressive.”

“Please don’t joke,” Castiel groans into the pot, sobriety flattening his tone. “This is horrible.”

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes and grabs the water off of his bedside table. “Here, gotta hydrate.”

“If I put anything else in my body, I will projectile vomit it back out all over you,” Castiel hiccups.

“Okay, okay,” Dean rubs his back. “We’ll take it slow. C’mon, lemme get you to the bathroom. Can you make it that far?”

“Yes,” Castiel frowns as Dean pulls the pot away from him. “I’m not incontinent, I just keep throwing up.”

“I know,” Dean sets the rancid pot down on the floor and helps Castiel stand. He could probably manage it himself, but maybe Dean has a soft spot for the guy.

And maybe Dean wants an excuse to touch him, even if he’s soaked through his nice shirt with sweat.

“I had to meet with my adviser today,” Castiel moans as he pulls at his tie. “I was supposed to go interview with a couple of people from Brown about grad school after. And then she told me that if I don’t pass all of my classes, I’m expelled.”

“Dude, you know how many times I heard that?” Dean plops him down on the edge of the toilet. “Hell, they told me so many goddamn times, I just decided to spare everyone the effort and quit.”

Dean clears his throat when that doesn’t get the laugh he expected and starts up the shower for Cas.

“No, I don’t want to shower,” Castiel groans, fisting his fingers in his sweat-darkened brown hair. “I deserve to be filthy and greasy and nauseated.”

“Okay, none of that self-deprecating shit,” Dean grabs the tie out of Castiel’s hands and grabs him by the shoulders. “You gotta calm down, man. You’re going through some heavy shit right now and you’re no good to the world if you’re beating yourself up about it, okay?”

Cas sticks his tongue out.

“I’m not above putting you in there in your fancy duds,” Dean warns. “I’ve taken care of bigger messes than you, come on.”

He can’t even count how many times he and Sam had to drag dad, fully clothed, hungover as all hell and half conscious, into the bath to sober him up. He shakes the thought from his mind. If he doesn’t, he’ll end up running out on this cozy-ass life he’s got now and be back to pouring his dad out of a bottle and into bed every night.

“You seem troubled,” Castiel observes.

“And you’re rank,” Dean comes back. “Come on, you’re wasting water.”

Castiel gives Dean as challenging a look as he can while feeling as shitty as he does, and stands. He doesn’t unbutton his shirt so much as rips it open, buttons flying everywhere.

“End of an era,” he announces, and dumps the soaked piece of cloth into the trash can. He’s fit under his clothes, leanly muscled with a sparse trail of hair leading into his slacks. He divests himself of those too, punctuating the entire moment by standing naked in the presence of a person he’s only just met.

Dean is about two feet away from his cock, eye level with it, and even soft it makes his fingers itch and his mouth water. He’s uncut, which Dean has never seen in person before. It gets Dean’s body all wriggly.

“I’ll need a towel,” Castiel grunts plainly. Dean shoots up to his feet and retrieves one from the cabinet above the toilet. He hands it to Castiel and swallows hard when their hands brush.

“No body image issues, huh?” Dean tries to joke.

Castiel shrugs, however, and points out, “Maybe I just don’t care.”

Dean leaves him be after that. He doesn’t need an awkward boner on top of everything else that’s gone on already. Instead, he finishes making his grilled cheese and opens up a beer, ready to kick back and watch some TV.

He picks the crusts off first, a habit he never broke after getting out on his own. Sammy always liked the squishy insides more than the crust, and when times were at their leanest and they had to ration food carefully, Dean always pulled off the crusts of their grilled cheese sandwich before handing the rest to Sam.

To this day, it’s still hard to eat the middle.

Dean sniffs back the burning sensation behind his eyes and flips through the channels.

Castiel emerges from the bathroom in nothing but his towel.

“Would you mind if I borrowed some clothes?” he asks. Dean lends him a pair of jeans that are too big for him and an AC/DC t-shirt Dean found at Goodwill however long ago. Dean’s clothes are a little big on him, but he looks much more relaxed without the suit and tie.

He sits beside Dean and glances at the uneaten middle of his sandwich.

“Saving it for a rainy day?” he asks.

Dean shakes his head and sticks it under his nose, “Want it?”

His body lurches, though thankfully it’s just a dry heave.

“I apologize,” Castiel says then. “For all of my unseemly behavior. I assure you, this is not who I am. I don’t get drunk and go home with bartenders. And I certainly don’t vomit in anyone’s house but my own.”

“S’all right,” Dean shrugs. “You’re cool anyway.”

“I also took the liberty of using some of your mouthwash,” Cas confesses then, at which Dean nods, “Good idea.”

“You like Family Feud?” he asks then, and Castiel looks over at him.

“Do you?”

“Eh, I’m kinda good at it at least,” Dean sets his beer and his plate on the coffee table. He drapes his arms over the back of the couch, not entirely realizing what he’s done until Castiel scoots closer to him.

He swallows hard.

Castiel is signaling back at him.

He drops his arm from the back of the couch to around Castiel’s shoulders, and fuckin’ A, Castiel settles in against him. He’s still damp from his shower, clammy too from all the toxic shit that comes from pumping your body with hard liquor for the first time.

“I’m bi,” Dean confesses then, because most dudes don’t go for that. Not for more than a quick tumble in the sack anyway. Dean likes Castiel though, more so than quick tumble material.

“I figured,” says Castiel. “I wasn’t certain at first, as the décor in your room suggests a heavily heterosexual preference, but then I caught you staring at my dick like you wanted to be its best friend.”

Dean gulps. He’s still new to guys. Girls, he has no problem. If Cas were a chick, he’d know exactly what to do and to say, but Cas is not a chick. He is a dude, who smells like Dean’s shampoo and is wearing Dean’s clothes.

“I also lack a gender preference,” says Castiel then. “Or a sexual preference. You’re the only person who knows that, besides Balthazar.”

“Okay, who the fuck is Balthazar,” Dean finally asks. “Is everyone you know fresh off the bus from Jesus camp or what?”

“Balthazar was my roommate in freshman year,” Castiel explains, shutting his eyes against the harsh light of the TV. “He’s a good friend, though sometimes unreliable. Hence, dropping me at a bar without an exit strategy.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Dean mutters. Castiel’s head lolls against his shoulder. “You taking another nap?”

Castiel hums against him and shifts so that his head is in Dean’s lap, the rest of his body curled up into a ball.

“Can you pet my hair?” Castiel asks.

Dean’s heart leaps.

“Uh, sure, Cas,” he nods and brings his fingers down to toy at the wet chunks of hair.

“And please don’t get an erection,” Castiel adds as an afterthought. “I’m really comfy right now.”

“I’ll try my damndest,” Dean swallows, and turns his attention back to Family Feud.

**oo**

Dean wakes up when Ellen gets home at three in the morning. When she stares gobsmacked at the two of them cuddled against each other on the couch, Dean wishes he could tell her that it isn’t what it looks like. 

Except it kind of  _is_  what it looks like, and Dean has no choice but to admit that he has the hots for a guy he just met. 

“He’s sleeping it off, Ellen,” Dean pleads softly.

“Then let him sleep here and you go sleep in your room,” Ellen chides. “It’s bad enough you got the poor boy drunk out of his skull, the least you could do is let him sleep off his hangover in peace.”

“I’m not –“ 

“Don’t you think I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours, Dean Winchester,” she warns. “You leave him be ‘til he’s in his right mind. Come on, up you get.”

Dean extracts himself from Castiel’s grip around his waist and pads silently back into his bedroom. He knows Ellen is right, but there’s still part of him that wants to hang on to Castiel and make sure he’s okay. 

He listens to Ellen get ready for bed, hears her brush her teeth and wash her face, and at last hears her turn off her light. Dean rolls over and entertains the idea of going back out to Castiel. Ellen would give him a righteous amount of shit if he did, but then also he’d get to be with Castiel again and goddamn if that isn’t what every part of his body is screaming for right now. 

His bedroom door squeaks open and Castiel slips inside, shutting the door behind him.

“How come you left?” Castiel rubs his eyes. 

Dean props himself up, “Thought you might want a little space. And Ellen came home and told me to leave you alone.”

“That was dumb,” Castiel shuffles over to the bed and slides in beside Dean. Then he pauses, getting a hold of the situation. He asks, “Can I sleep in here with you?”

“’course you can,” Dean yawns. “You need another blanket or anything?” 

There’s no answer, and when Dean looks over he sees that Castiel, yet again, has dozed off with inhuman ease. 

It takes forever for Dean to fall asleep usually, but with Castiel on the couch it had just kind of happened. With Castiel here now, Dean’s eyelids droop, because somehow this hungover neurotic dweeb relaxes him. 

It’s actually kind of terrifying. 

How can he have so many feelings for someone he only just met? 

**oo**

This time when Dean wakes, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Castiel is in the exact same position as he was last night, while Dean managed to throw himself all the way across the bed while he slept. 

Dean cups his hand under Castiel’s nose and feels an idiotic flood of relief when he determines, yes, he is breathing. 

“Why is your hand in my face?” asks Castiel. 

“Just makin’ sure you’re not dead,” Dean sits up. “How y’feelin’?”

“Better, I think,” Castiel looks around the room, gathering his bearings. “I feel a lot less like death, so that’s a plus. But now I remember why I was drinking in the first place and I’m upset all over again.” 

“That’s generally why people start drinking again,” Dean stretches. “But that’s also alcoholism or something, and apparently we frown upon that in this house.” 

The Winchesters are drinkers; Ellen and Jo are talkers. 

Dean would rather puncture his eyeballs with forks. 

“Seems a little illogical to keep drinking if it only makes you feel worse afterward,” Castiel mumbles. He looks over at Dean, hair sticking up every which way and, offers him a soft smile. 

Without even thinking about it, Dean reaches over and strokes the back of his fingers against Castiel’s scruff. It’s a tender touch for two people who are otherwise strangers, but Castiel leans into it. 

And then Dean cups Castiel’s face in both hands and presses a kiss square on his lips. 

Castiel sighs softly underneath the light pressure of lips on lips, and brings a hand up to Dean’s neck to steady himself.  Castiel’s lips slide perfectly against Dean’s, timid yet earnest in their movement. 

One kiss in and Dean’s already positive that he likes kissing Castiel a lot. Castiel brings him back down to the bed, fingers tangled in Dean’s hair as he seeks to press more of them together. Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel’s knee brushes softly against the burgeoning erection in his jeans. 

Dean pulls back first, the lump in his throat too hard to swallow, but rather than be annoyed, Castiel runs his hands over Dean’s thighs and lets him have his moment, lets him just pause and look over him. 

And fuck if Castiel isn’t gorgeous. He knows this feeling in his gut, recognizes the pure, unbridled lust he has for this guy. It’s not a new concept, people have one night (afternoon?) stands every day. Human beings are a populace driven by their desire to suck and fuck anyone that will let them, and so often it feels exactly like what keeps the planets spinning and the stars shining up in the sky. 

But with Castiel there’s no cosmic plane Dean feels connected to, no overarching connection to the universe. It really is just him and Castiel here, in his room, grinding against each other as they meet in another kiss. 

Dean likes it better that way, he thinks. 

He pushes Castiel’s shirt up over his head and kisses down his neck and his collarbone, over his chest and to one of his nipples. He lets out a soft sigh of satisfaction when Dean’s teeth scrape lightly over the dusky pink flesh. 

“Hang on,” Castiel takes a shuddering breath. “Lemme get your shirt off.” 

He pulls Dean’s ratty old Metallica shirt up over his head and tosses it aside. For an ice cold second, Dean actually thinks that Cas might say to get off of him. It wouldn’t surprise him, to be honest. He’s got a couple of tattoos and a some pudge on his belly that he’d rather not discuss, but Castiel seems to like it. 

He runs his hands up Dean’s belly and up his chest, pausing to press his thumb against the single barbell that goes through Dean’s right nipple. Castiel smiles, but instead of asking about it, or teasing him, he leans up and snags the piercing in his teeth. 

“Son of a  _bitch_ ,” Dean hiccups. 

“Afraid I’ll have to agree with you there,” Castiel presses the flat of his tongue against Dean’s nipple and soothes the teeth marks he left there. Not so much required foreplay as it feels to be Castiel’s genuine interest in what makes Dean tick. 

Dean swallows hard as Castiel’s fingers come up to the fly of his jeans and start to work. He dips his hand below Dean’s underwear and closes his hand around his cock, still softer than it is hard. Dean flushes. 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“About what?” Castiel asks, his hand beginning to move in tender, careful strokes. “That you’re not hard yet? I don’t mind. I’d like to feel you get hard in my hand.” 

Dean lets out a soft whimper at that, blood surging southward as Castiel’s hand strokes him to life. He pushes Dean’s pants and boxers down further, so Dean can wriggle out of them and toss them aside. 

Shit, Dean’s never been this naked in front of another guy before. Handjobs, blowjobs, sure, but as far as actually doin’ the dirty with another dude… he’s never gotten that far. He swallows hard, about to apologize for not being better, but the words die in his throat the moment he sees Castiel.

Dean knows he’s a good-looking guy, but it never fails to make his chest puff up when people look at him in just the way Castiel is right now. That alone is enough to light a fire under Dean’s skin. He pulls Castiel down into a kiss, tongues sliding together, fingers tangling in each other’s hair.

“You’re gorgeous,” Castiel murmurs against him. 

And because Dean’s brain believes this to be the proper response, he blurts, “I’ve never fucked a guy before.” 

Castiel pauses at this, and looks directly up into him. Dean’s heart hammers hard against his ribs because, fuck, it’s true, and it’s about to not be. 

“I have,” Castiel reassures. “Would you like to?” 

Dean nods and unhooks Castiel’s belt. 

“Would you like to be on top or on bottom?” asks Castiel. 

Dean makes an embarrassingly long noise of pause. “Bottom is in the butt, right?” 

“Yes, Dean, being on the bottom would imply you having my dick in your ass,” Castiel nods, pushing down his jeans and kicking them aside. 

His dick looks even better hard, all flushed and already leaking precome onto his stomach. 

“Shit,” Dean marvels, and Castiel squirms under the attention.

“I like getting guys hard,” he confesses, pink tingeing his cheeks as the words slip past his kiss-darkened lips. 

Dean leans down and kisses him again, trapping their erections between their stomachs. 

It’s almost unbelievable how good that feels. 

Dean staggers kisses all down Castiel’s torso, licks long stripes over the dips and ridges of his skin. Eventually he settles between Castiel’s thighs and takes him in his hand. Castiel lets out an appreciative hum, so Dean gives him just a few teasing strokes. He can’t pull his attention from the way Castiel’s foreskin slides over him. 

Dean holds him steady and licks up the precome forming at the tip. 

Castiel winces. 

“Sensitive,” Castiel explains when Dean pulls away. “You caught me off guard. Please, continue.” 

“Christ, you gotta be so fuckin’ polite?” Dean sucks the entire head, foreskin and all, into his mouth.

Cas tastes really nice. 

“You’ve got my dick in your mouth,” Castiel sighs. “The least I could do is return a polite gesture with more politeness.”

Dean makes an obscene popping noise as he pulls Castiel out of his mouth and raises an eyebrow. 

“Who said anything about being polite?” he asks. “I just like sucking cock.” 

A laugh erupts from Castiel’s chest, low and thick. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds Dean has ever heard, and he needs Castiel to make more. He wants to hear every single noise this guy can make, and he wants to be the one to pull them out of him.

He dips down and slides his lips over Castiel’s cock again. He tastes sharp on his tongue, pleasant enough that Dean hums around him. That earns him a sharp intake of breath, a delicious gasp that makes Dean reach down and give himself a squeeze.

He’s good at this part, at least. That’s what having a girly-looking mouth and hitchhiking from truck stop to truck stop will do to a guy. Maybe that’ll make up for any incompetence later.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel interjects softly, just in case they’re not alone in the house. Dean looks up, still sucking, and sees Castiel’s eyelids flutter, sees the breath escape his lungs.

“Dean, stop,” he murmurs. Dean pulls back, swiping the spit and precome that coats his lower lip on the back of his hand.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks. It doesn’t feel right, not having Castiel in his mouth. It’s like the phantom feeling when you forget to wear your watch, or left your wallet at home. Something belongs in the empty space.

Castiel’s cock belongs in Dean’s mouth.

“Do you have any lube?” Castiel asks, very serious look on his face.

“Uh, y-yeah,” he flushes red at the confession. “It’s, um… it’s under the mattress right – up further – there, yeah.”

Castiel retrieves a mostly full bottle of astroglide from under Dean’s mattress, and he smiles.

“Skillful masturbator, or curious explorer?” Castiel asks, popping the cap on the lube and drizzling it onto his fingers.

He does have these long, elegant hands that make Dean’s insides turn funny.  

And then Cas grins back at him, “You want me to get me or you ready?”

Dean’s throat closes up at the thought.

He thinks he might actually give his right arm to see Castiel finger himself.

But also, if this is the last time this happens, Dean doesn’t know if he’d ever forgive himself if he didn’t let Castiel work him open and fuck him. He pulls Castiel in close and sucks a kiss into his jaw, running his teeth over the stubble, making his way up to Castiel’s ear.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs. “Please, Cas?”

Something serious flashes behind Castiel’s eyes for a moment, but he quickly stamps it down and shifts them so that Dean’s hips are propped up comfortably on one of his pillows.

He spreads Dean’s cheeks and fingers softly at his hole.

“You’re certain,” Castiel checks, pressure of his finger growing ever insistent. It feels kind of nice, like when he’s done it to himself, only… well, different.

Duh.

“Positive,” he nods.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, all right?” Castiel’s finger just barely breaches him, and Dean sucks in a surprised gasp.

“Cas, _please_ ,” Dean tries to wriggle closer to him, and Castiel grins. With a steadying hand on his stomach (and a wandering thumb that brushes the tip of his cock), Castiel begins to work his fingers inside Dean.

The feeling itself is weird as fuck, but not in a bad way. In a ‘this is kinda nice’ way. Castiel works methodically, thoroughly, his pink tongue poking out in concentration every few moments as he tunes into Dean’s body.

He adds another finger.

A little more of a stretch, but Cas pours more lube onto his fingers and lets Dean adjust.

He hiccups when Cas prods his prostate, and then whines when he does it again.

“You know I could make you come just like this?” Castiel presses into it again, just right. It’s not cocky or devious, just a statement of fact that makes Dean’s breath hitch. This guy has him wrapped around his finger (ha!) already, has Dean just on the precipice of begging for Castiel to let him come.

More lube, another finger.

This is entirely less comfortable.

It doesn’t hurt, it’s just not comfortable.

Dean’s face must tell a different story, though, because at that point Castiel leans down and presses a kiss to the center of his forehead.

It serves only a small comfort. There’s lube in the crack of his ass, pooling with sweat and heat, lube on his nuts and on the insides of his thighs. He feels kind of dirty, but god, he’ll be dirty for Cas.

He’ll be dirty for Cas for as long as Cas wants him to be.

“Condoms?” Castiel asks then, retracting his fingers altogether. Dean groans out in protest, arching up into nothing, precome soaking his belly.

Dirty, dirty.

“Check in the nightstand,” he finally manages. Sure enough, Castiel procures a condom and slides it merrily onto his dick.

Of course this motherfucker is _merry_ at the idea of fucking him.

“All right,” Castiel scoots up. His dark hair clings to his forehead, dark with sweat, blue eyes dark with lust. He pulls Dean forward by his thighs, coats himself with some more lube, and positions himself right against Dean’s entrance.

It’s slow: mind-numbingly, universe-alteringly slow. Cas probably wants to give him time to adjust, and that’s nice and all, but the fucking suspense is making it even worse. There’s a dick in his ass, he’s over it, he’d like to move onto the good part, thank you.

But then he catches Castiel smiling at him, combing his sweaty hair back with his fingers so it doesn’t drip all over Dean, and then running a hand over the outside of his thigh, down the inside. The way he’s touching Dean as he starts to move in slow, shallow thrusts, makes Dean’s heart stutter.

Castiel’s fingertips brush over his belly, over the pudgiest part at the bottom, and Dean lets out a laugh that he quickly tries to mask.

It’s apparently endearing, because Castiel hangs his head and laughs.

“Ticklish, Dean?”

Dean shakes his head, but he knows he’s fucked. Castiel has already logged it away for future reference and now continues his finger map of Dean’s body.

His movements pick up pace gradually, rolling in and out until it’s not rolling anymore.

The bed springs start to squeak, the headboard starts to hit the wall with each and every move of Castiel’s hips. Dean can feel every single movement inside him, every time the tip of Cas’ cock catches his prostate. He wants to grab onto Cas’ beautiful shoulders, but they’re too far away. He grabs onto his quilt with one hand, and Castiel’s forearm with the other.

Castiel brings his free hand to Dean’s erection, closing a light fist around him as they fuck. The friction isn’t nearly enough for everything else that’s going on and it’s driving Dean up the fucking wall.

“Harder,” he pleads. “Cas, harder, _please_.”

Castiel complies.

The headboard slams into the wall with every thrust Castiel makes, pleasure building with every flick of his wrist and punch of his hips.

Dean comes first. He doesn’t mean to, but Castiel’s hand on him and cock in him are too much. He reaches up and hangs onto Castiel’s biceps, fingernails digging into his skin as he comes in sticky white spurts on his belly.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Castiel’s face contorted in deep concentration, brows furrowed and pinched together as he thrusts a final few times into Dean. He comes with a loud cry, one that gets Dean to pull him down and muffle him against his shoulder.

Castiel ends up laughing at that, sweaty and hazy and damn-near giddy. He presses kisses into Dean’s shoulder and his neck, all the way up until he reaches his mouth.

This time when they kiss, it’s lazy and sated.

“How are you feeling?” asks Castiel after a few moments. He pulls out of Dean and slides off the condom, all the while looking earnestly for a response.

“Dude, I’m fuckin’ awesome,” Dean laughs.

He just let a guy fuck him, and it wasn’t the end of the world.

Who knew?

Castiel tosses the condom in the trash can and flops back down beside Dean. They lie shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the ceiling with matching goofy smiles on their faces.

“Can I put an arm around you?” Castiel murmurs, and Dean tenses.

Dick in the ass is one thing; a guy’s arm around him is another matter entirely.

“Here,” Dean shifts and puts an arm around Castiel. And even though Castiel does move so they’re cuddled up tight, he looks up at Dean and very plainly points out, “You know that’s not what I asked, right?”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean shoots back and buries his nose in Castiel’s hair.

“You call me Cas.”

“Is that okay?” asks Dean. “s’just that Castiel’s a little biblical for me is all.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel affirms. “Gabriel’s the only one who ever shortens my name, but I kind of like it, actually.”

Dean chuckles, “Hey man, it’s cool. I’ll call you whatever.”

“After that, you have license to call me whatever you’d like,” Castiel stretches against him.

Dean grins, “You sure you wanna give me that power?”

Castiel smiles into Dean’s skin and starts kissing him all over.

“Now I’m just curious to see what you come up with,” he hums, kissing all the way back up to Dean’s lips. They roll together, Castiel back on top, pinning Dean to the bed. They make out lazily, laughing and grinning against each other in a way that Dean hasn’t done since he was a kid.

A knock on the door startles them away from each other, Ellen calling after, “Sorry to break up the lovefest, but you got a shift in two hours, Dean.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Dean rubs his face.

“You boys better be playin’ safe,” she warns.

“Oh, my god,” Dean mutters as Castiel laughs beside him.

He’s naked, fucked out, and his surrogate mother just asked if he’d used protection while having sex that she _obviously_ heard.

“Shit, man, I gotta shower,” he decides. “You coming?”

“That’s probably wise,” Castiel agrees, and follows Dean into the bathroom.

It’s been a long time since Dean has shared a shower with anyone. Lisa was probably the last, actually, and those had been awkward, fumbling ventures that had been less about getting clean and more about getting to soap up her tits and finger her senseless while she’d tried to wash her hair.

It had been fun, but not like this.

When Castiel soaps his hair into a Mohawk, Dean laughs. He looks at Dean like he’s crazy, as though he has no reason to be doing anything other than cleaning himself, but breaks when Dean fashions himself a pair of lopsided boobs out of soap suds.

“Dork,” Castiel shakes his head.

“How dare you, I’m a grown-ass man,” Dean sticks out his tongue.

By the time they’re out and dressed again Ellen is nowhere to be seen.

“So, I guess I’m taking you home,” Dean grabs his keys and his wallet off of the table by the door. He opens his mouth to ask Castiel where he’s taking him, but his stomach chooses that exact moment to growl.

Castiel looks at him.

“Shit,” Dean laughs to himself. “You wanna get some breakfast before I take you home?”

“Dean, it’s one in the afternoon.”

“Lunch, then,” Dean rolls his eyes. “C’mon, I know a good place.”

Moseley’s is a little diner near the center of town. He’s been coming here ever since Ellen started putting him up, tried everything on the menu at least twice, and can say with supreme confidence that Missouri Moseley makes the best pie in the county, and quite possibly the state.

“Hey there, Dean,” greets Missouri as Dean and Cas sit down at the counter. Missouri Moseley owns the place, passed down to her from her grandmother, Lulu Moseley. Dean also knows for a fact that Missouri doubles as a psychic, often leaving Cassie, the most bangin’ waitress in all of waitressdom, in charge of the diner while she reads tarot cards in a room in back.

“How you doin’ this afternoon, baby?” Missouri asks, pouring both him and Cas a cup of coffee.

“I’m all right,” Dean smiles back at her. He’s just been fucked and he’s having a hard time sitting right, he doesn’t say, but one look at Cas shows that that’s exactly where his mind is right now too.

Dean’s pretty sure she can tell without him even saying a word, anyway, so why bother?

“And what’s your name, sweetheart?” she asks Castiel.

Castiel politely introduces himself as “Cas”, and Missouri gives Dean a look that could only mean, “ _Good job on the one-night stand_.”

“Take all the time you need, boys,” she hums. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you.”

Dean already knows what he wants. After the morning he’s had, he could go for a nice, juicy bacon cheeseburger and some fries. Maybe some apple pie after.

He’s a man of simple means, and simple pleasures

After a few minutes, Castiel sets down his menu and cups his hands around his coffee. It occurs to Dean that he should probably say something, but words turn to molasses in his mouth, all gummed up and tacky.

Castiel’s fingers drum against the side of his mug, his leg bounces under the counter. Upon closer inspection, Dean can see Castiel chewing at the inside of his lip.

“Hey, Cas, what’s the deal?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks over, almost like he looks surprised to be addressed. His legs stop going and his fingers stop drumming, and he lets a harsh breath out of his nose.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he reassures.

“You sure?” Dean rubs his forehead. “I’ve met tweakers who sit stiller than you.”

“I apologize,” Castiel clears his throat. “Perhaps I am a little anxious to be going back home. Everything is real there. School, work, my parents, my…everything. I much prefer this reality to that.”

“Which reality?” Dean frowns. Castiel smiles that anxious, timid smile and turns a strangely adoring look at Dean.

“The one where I got to wake up next to you,” he explains, as though stating the color of the sky or the number of feet in a mile.

Dean swallows hard, unsure of how to respond to that. If any one of his one-night stands ever liked waking up next to him, he’s never had time to find out.

“I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” says Castiel, and when Dean raises an eyebrow he continues, “Not for my sake. You’re a very nice person to wake up next to, Dean.”

Well, shit. That’s just a fucking wonderful thing to say, and here Dean is, chugging half of his coffee so that he doesn’t have to say anything nice back.

_Real fuckin’ smooth, Winchester._

“You boys decided on what you’d like yet?” Missouri asks, and then notices Dean’s face. “Blushin’ like a school girl on prom night,” she shakes her head. “Cas, honey, why don’t you go first?”

“I would like the biscuits and gravy, please,” Castiel smiles back at her. “And two eggs sunny side up.”

“You got it,” Missouri smiles. “Dean?”

Dean mumbles out his order, wishing this would all end. Why couldn’t he just take Castiel home and been done with it? Apparently he’s a sucker for sexy dudes with a heavy nerd vibe and crooked smiles.

And apparently Castiel is a sucker for waking up next to dumbass punk bartenders.

“Are you from around here?” asks Castiel then, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

Are they… they’re talking now. Okay.

“Yeah, I was born in Kansas, actually,” he nods. “We moved to Oklahoma after my brother was born, though.”

“How’d you end up in Nebraska?” Castiel asks. It’s such a mundane thing to want to know, and yet with every earnest look Castiel turns on him he feels like the guy is reaching into his chest, Temple of Doom status.

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “Same way anyone ends up in Nebraska, I guess.”

Castiel offers him a smile at that and looks back down into his coffee.

“Why did you move to Oklahoma, then?” he asks, as though it’s any less invasive.”

“My dad,” Dean grabs the back of his neck. “Um, he was a cop. Got offered a job in Tulsa.”

Castiel nods, glancing up at the specials written in chalk on the wall behind the counter.

“Are,” Dean clears his throat. “Are you from around here?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, and then shakes his head.

“I grew up in Newport Beach,” he says. “In California.”

“And you’re in Nebraska?” Dean laughs. “Why?”

“School,” Castiel shrugs. “UNL had the program I wanted, it was far enough away that nobody would want to come visit me... It was great.”

“So, you could be tanning that sweet ass on a beach somewhere right now, and instead you’re here, in a diner, in the middle of Nebraska, with me.”

“Believe it or not, it’s infinitely more favorable than being in the same state as my mother,” Castiel shakes his head, going until he cracks his neck. “She’s going to pull me back home the second she finds out about school.”

“Don’t go,” Dean shrugs.

“I don’t have a choice,” Castiel rubs his eyes, leg shaking under the counter again.

“You’ve always got a choice, Cas,” Dean frowns, confused. Who the hell lets anyone tell them what to do anymore? It’s the twenty-first fuckin’ century.

“I’d be cut off, Dean,” Castiel groans. “I know, I know, I’m a trust fund kid, my parents fund virtually everything I do. Poor me.”

“Poor you’s fuckin’ right,” Dean nods, polishing off his coffee. “You work?”

“A couple hours at the library every week,” Castiel’s whole body shakes now. “Not enough to support myself.”

Dean watches as Castiel starts ripping up the paper placemat in front of him into tiny, measured pieces. It’s exactly the Castiel he met at the Roadhouse twenty-four hours ago.

“Fuck,” Dean sighs and turns toward him. “I left home when I was seventeen, all right? I know I’m not exactly the pinnacle of human existence or anything, but I left with the clothes on my back and twenty bucks to my name. If you’re resilient enough, you can hack it.”

“I’m not you, Dean,” Castiel comes back quite frankly, and then looks at him, puzzled. “You left home when you were seventeen?”

Thankfully, Missouri comes with their orders before Dean has to respond, and Dean can stuff his mouth with food to absorb the cascade of shit threatening to pour out into the air between them.

They eat in silence, until Castiel reaches over and plucks two fries from Dean’s plate.

“Hey—“ Dean stops mid protest when Castiel sticks the fries under his lips, the ends now doused in ketchup, making for himself a couple of fangs.

“Who am I?” he asks very seriously.

When Dean doesn’t answer, he replies for him in a shoddy Transylvanian accent, “Count Fry-cula.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean puts his face in his hands, and has to deal with Castiel’s peals of nerdy laughter, bouncing around in his ears and making his heart rate pick up under his ribs.

They make it through the rest of the meal, and though Dean fights him on it, Castiel hands his credit card to Missouri up at the register.

“It’s the least I can do,” he says. “You’ve shown me every kindness a person could, Dean. A thousand meals couldn’t even begin to repay you.”

“Man, I didn’t do it for free food, or,” he glances up at Missouri, who gives him a knowing smile, and gulps, “or anything like that. You needed help, so I helped yo

“You do realize what a rare trait that is, though,” Castiel signs his name to the bottom of the receipt.

“He certainly does not,” Missouri shakes her head.

“Missouri, _please_ ,” Dean implores, and upon her sternly raised brow, he mutters a quick, “Thank you.”

“It was delicious, Missouri,” Castiel beams at her, and manages a ‘thank you’ before Dean pulls him out into the parking lot.

Thankfully, getting him back to his place in Lincoln isn’t too complicated. He lives in a house near campus, a quaint thing made out of bricks, on the same street as so many others that look just like it.

For whatever reason, Dean feels it’s only kind to walk Castiel to the front door.

“I did enjoy my time with you, Dean,” Castiel says as he unlocks the door. From what Dean can see when he steps inside, the interior is spotless, and everything has its place.

It looks very Castiel.

“I—I had fun too, Cas,” Dean allows himself to admit.

_Ask him out._

Dean can’t look away from Castiel looking at him.

_Idiot. Ask him out, idiot._

How do you ask guys out? Adam’s the only dude he ever came close to asking on a date, and that was because eighteen year old Dean was stupid enough to think he wanted anything more than an oil change and a blowjob in the back of his BMW.

The thought of dating a guy was kind of terrifying anyway.

At least, it was until yesterday.

“Dean,” Castiel pulls him out of his head.

“Yeah?”

“I should really get going,” says Castiel, pulling out his fancy smart phone. Shit, he’s probably checking his email or something important. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Dean quickly blurts out, “I like you, can I see you again?”

Castiel lets out a relieved laugh and hands his phone to Dean.

A new contact page stares back at him, the name Dean Winchester written across the screen, the cursor blinking under the “Mobile” section.

Dean punches in his phone number, and waits for Castiel to text him his.

It’s dumb, the way he smiles when Castiel’s text pops up, nothing but a smiley face and a _“Free on Saturday?”_

Dean flushes, and Castiel quickly checks for his neighbors before pulling him into a goodbye kiss.

He smiles the entire way back to the Roadhouse, entire body humming as the events of the last day sink in.

He thinks this might be contentment.

Weird.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
